Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Tis the season to get drunk off of your parent's alcohol and put ex-lax in your smug brother's food and then "accidentally" lock all the bathrooms so you can take video of him shitting in the yard and blow up your Twitter with raw footage. This is also the time when people make their New Year's resolutions; knowing full well that you'll start the New Year rolling yourself out from under a hairy man's body and trying to sneak out of his dorm room (fuuuuck not again, I swear he was 30!) with enough clothing to avoid an indecent exposure charge. Yet we continue to make these ridiculous resolutions because Cosmo tells us to...I don't know why it's so god damn hard to say no to those whores.

I've decided that I will make a few resolutions this year. But first I'll explain why yours are fucking stupid.

Resolution 1: I will be a better employee, friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc.
This resolution is probably why the suicide rate is so high near the holidays. First of all, I'll consider becoming a better employee when I make as much money as I deserve. In my opinion I'm worth $80,000 a year. Since I'm pretty positive that will never happen, I will continue to not give a fuck about my job and call my students cunts when they have a rage blackout on the phone. Give me a raise and I can afford enough Botox to keep my face in a permanent smile and enough meds to project faux happiness. As a friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc. I'm fucking flawless. I ensure I take enough happy pills to last the whole time we're hanging out so I don't have an emotion to ruin the night and I always have alcohol in my home...always. I don't even need to explain my obsession with my dog. That bastard eats better than I do and has more accessories than Suri Cruise. Yeah Suri, I said it. But feel free to decide you want to be a better friend to me. I'll take appreciation in the forms of cash, pills, booze and maybe a leg hump or two if you're on my bucket list.

Resolution 2: Lose 5-185 lbs.
So most of us can stand to lose a few pound. I'm looking at you Mary Kate. I know you ate a cracker yesterday, I can smell it on your breath you quitter. However it's the moment that you decide that you will go on a diet that you suddenly have the urge to consume an entire bag of Flamin Hot Lays and see how many Big Macs can fit in your stomach. You also start to wonder if those dog cookies are really that good. I mean you should probably taste what your pets eat right? Don't moms test food before they feed it to their babies? Uh, where was I? Oh right, diets. Instead of making a resolution to follow the Lohan diet and filling my fridge with sugar-free Red Bull and cocaine, I'll just decide that I'm too poor to eat at McDonalds. This could also be a true fact but I guess you'll never know. Just keep in mind that any change left in my couch is mine you son of a bitches.

Resolution 3: Find Mr. Right.
This one is my favorite. I don't care how many feminists stop shaving and have bushes growing out of their polyester running shorts, these bitches are still pining for Mr. Right. Every year we decide that we'll stop chatting up the douchebags at the bar and start giving the nice guys a chance. And every year we spill our beer on the nice guy trying to push the blonde with the fake tits and hair extensions out of the way to get to the douche bag in the flannel shirt and "ironic" Buddy Holly glasses. Or the one in the band that hasn't really started and just bought a guitar two days ago, still in the case. Awesome. Maybe some of us find Mr. Right, but it's probably because he gave you a ride home and held your hair back as you vomited after the douche bag ditched you for one of those hipster chicks. I'm going to be a realist here and say that there's a 100% chance that I will not find Mr. Right this year. However, I will make a commitment to testing out as many possibilities as my peesh can handle.

Resolution 4: Kick bad habits: drinking, smoking, whoring, cursing, etc.
Two words: FUCK THIS. If I wanted to be boring and sober I would have gone to rehab at 16 and moved to Utah. The best part of my day is getting home so I can crack open a beer or bottle of wine, smoke a cigarette on my balcony and put all my pills in a bag, shake it, reach in and take the two that I grab first. Some might call this reckless, I call it Monday - Thursday. We'll get into what happens Friday-Sunday next time. I plan on continuing all of my bad habits. I've come this far and 27 is the golden age right? Bring it on cirrhosis of the liver and emphysema. I've had a good run.

So while the rest of you resolution makers are out there getting gym passes, baking your neighbors cookies, working late and throwing out the vodka bottles you usually hide under your bathroom sink just know that I'm proud of you. You can find me smoking, yelling "Fuck" and taking body shots off the guy who looks like Vinny from Jersey Shore before we go to Taco Bell with the change you left in my couch.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Yes, if you're wondering, that was a "How I Met Your Mother" reference. I felt it was necessary since this blog will loosely reference a few Barney's I've had in my life. Maybe a few Ted's and Robin's too. And if you hate that show fuck you, go read Kim Kardashian's blog. She doesn't like to move her face muscles either. Or do any type of deep breathing that might slightly flare her nostrils and take the attention away from her huge tits. She used daddy's money for those god dammit. Or her stepmother Bruce Jenner's money. But let's get back to the important topic here...me.

I have quite often found myself President, Vice President and Treasurer of the Third Wheel Club. Sometimes I even act as Interim-President of the Fifth, Seven and Ninth Wheel Clubs during three-day weekends and group outings. Now don't get me wrong, I love my current couple friends and loved many of my past couple friends. However if we're being completely honest, I did sometimes picture, for just a second or two, one of them getting plastered and making out with a stranger at the bar. Or deciding not to hold that rage back until the car ride home and flipping a table and screaming, "Prostitute whore!" at their significant other similar to the ever so classy Teresa Guidouche. No really, I was happy that they were happy and we were all so fucking happy I wanted to vomit all over myself and drown in the regurgitated gallons of beer I necessarily consumed every time I hung out with them.

It's funny how being the Third Wheel should make me feel like the Haylie Duff of the group, which is a joke because I'm clearly the dead-eyed Britney Spears that needs to be held up by my "back-up dancers", but it's always the couples that feel weird. They feel like they have to compensate and work at making me feel comfortable. This usually plays out one of the four ways:

1. Plying me with alcohol so I forget that I'm single and alone and therefore quite clearly on the verge of suicide. This generally works in my favor. I will never turn down a free drink. And if that turns into 6 Jager bombs and an oddly fizzing jack and coke that I weirdly black out after drinking, no complaints here. Even better if I wake up the next day and don't have 18 missed calls, 43 texts from numbers that I don't recognize asking if I've been tested recently, and a note pinned to my shirt with my blood type listed.

2. The set-up that's not really a set-up, just a strange sequence of events that result in two single friends ending up smashed into a booth together with a couple that have the acting skills of a Yellow Crayon. This time I'm paying for my own drinks because the random friend that shows up ends up being a former Wal-Mart employee who is unable to find a new job because of a mix-up with a drug test and alleged 4-month lapse in paying child support. This is when self-administiring a roofie is extremely tempting, but no way in hell am I raising this baby alone you son of a bitch! I'm expecting a night of free booze again, when all I get is an awkward three hours of trying to decide what's more important, my last ounce of pride or just licking the guy's face so I can maybe finagle a free body shot or at least pretend that I don't want my friends to die in a car fire. Please note, I have never met a quality guy through my couple friends. Is this a sign? Oh Jesus...where's that roofie I hid last weekend...

3. Trying to pawn me off on some random dude at the bar. One second I'm saying that the dude in the red shirt down at the end of the bar may not be a troll and the next second I'm being shoved in his direction like an 18-year old being sent off to college by her horny parents who can't wait to turn her bedroom into an "office". Now he's staring at me and I feel like I have no choice but to follow through. Now I don't have many flaws, only 1 and 1/2 to be specific, and first impressions are the 1/2. Unless I'm blacked out. Then I nail them every time. I'm so fucking charming it's ridiculous when I'm strategically placing my arms to hide the Jager stain on my shirt and trying to pull my dress out of my tights. But during a sober moment, my opening line sometimes consists of things like, "Hey, is your name Jeff? No of course it's not. Sorry I just said that to try to talk to you. I'm going to see if it's possible to drown myself in the sink now. Nice to meet you." Weirdly he didn't ask for my number. However I do think he asked security to keep me away from him. So I nailed it, clearly.

4. The "I hate being in a relationship" conversation. This one is my favorite. Boyfriend pisses off girlfriend earlier in the day by eating the last of the Doritoes when he knew she was going to wait until he left so she could eat them and pretend like he did the night before. Girlfriend drinks her fourth vodka tonic and unleashes about how big a prick boyfriend is. And how I'm so lucky that I can do whatever I want and go home with whoever I want and no one ever asks me where I'm going and what I'm doing and why I never wear my black lace thong anymore. This is the last thing a single person wants to hear. Yeah no dude ever eats the rest of my Doritoes but I also don't have one to kill that huge ass mother fucking cockroach in my kitchen, walk my dog at 5:30am when I'm freezing my nuts off and bitch slap the asshole at the bar that takes my barstool and steps on my new boot. So shut the fuck up and go home and make him hang that picture you've wanted up in your room for months. Fingers crossed he'll hammer his thumb on accident.

A word of advice to all of you couples that do any or all of the above to your single friends, we may be on the verge of suicide during the holidays while we debate how tragic it would be if we send out a Christmas card with a picture of us and our dog, but don't make it worse. Or I will fuck your boyfriend/girlfriend. And yes I have been tested, thank you for checking (562) 265-1098.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Growing up in the Litfun/Reed/Cole household it became clear very early on that the weak do not survive. If you show weakness, you will be shoved behind the couch for hours desperately trying not to piss your pants while your siblings mock you and throw things at your face. Maybe even threaten to pee on you...just to see if that will break the seal. Death threats, red ants down diapers, broken legs, just to name a few, were a pretty frequent occurrence. When you're harassed and humiliated as a child, you handle embarrassing moments a little more gracefully as an adult. I blame my childhood traumas for fucking up my mental capacity for understanding when I should, or should not be embarrassed.

Example one: Walking into a bar, restaurant, party, someone's apartments, etc. alone really freaks me out. I get this moment of panic that I'll walk in and the people I'm supposed to meet aren't going to be there. Or I'm going to get slimed like I'm Miley fucking Cyrus at the fucking Teens Douche Awards and this new shirt that I spent my grocery money on will be ruined; and everyone will laugh. I'm completely in awe of people that can go to movies alone, even if they're sitting in the back touching themselves to the Twilight movies, I still give you props. Though the high five will have to wait until you wash those egg implanters off your hands.

However I am not embarrassed to walk into a party and yell, "Who do I need to blow around here to play beer pong?" I have even less shame over the fact that I kept my promise and got to hear my little brother tell my parents all about their skank of a daughter over coffee the next morning. It didn't even faze me that good old mom drove over to the brothel the next morning to check out my conquest and then critiqued him for 20 minutes. Thanks mom, I'll make sure to remember that next time. Or the next, next, next time. This would mortify most people, to me, it's just another Sunday.

Example two: Every time I go grocery shopping I feel like the cashier and the bagger are judging me. Sometimes all I want to buy are three bags of Doritoes, cheese, and beer. But as I look into my cart I start to think about what this looks like. What am I a 21 year old boy? So out of guilt I throw some vegetables in there, maybe a loaf of bread, orange juice, and batteries. I have so many fucking batteries in my house its ridiculous. I could supply the porn industry with enough batteries to keep those dildos going for months. I'll even admit that one time a cashier at Vons, who I hope dies in a car fire, commented on my purchases. That son of a bitch started saying out loud what he was bagging. I wanted to choke him to death. I wanted to go back in time and stomp his mother's cervix when he was still a fetus. Instead I made up some lie about shopping for my roommate and ran out of there so fast I think I trampled a toddler. Whatever bitch your mom should have stopped by the condom aisle two years ago, not my problem. Talk about a bitch slap to my self-esteem.

The grocery incident gave me a nervous breakdown. But I felt it was perfectly acceptable to take off my underroos in the back patio at a bar and pee in the dirt. Not the bushes, in the dirt like a god damn cat. The smokers stared and I didn't give one shit. I think I even asked one of them to hold my underwear and check my dress for pee stains when I was finished. At that point I'm sure they would have much rather watched me sit in the dirt eating Doritoes and chugging beers. Maybe even changing batteries in all of my appliances. Note: this has not been the first time I've peed in an inappropriate place, and I'm pretty sure that it won't be the last. Stay tuned.

Example three: Doing laundry in my apartment building scares the shit out of me. I'm freaked out for the following reasons (1) one of my neighbors will be in there the same time as me and wonder why my blankets are covered in vomit (my cat is Bulimic, I swear!); (2) I will trip and fall while walking with my laundry basket and my bras and underwear and godawful sweat pants will rain down on the apartments below me; (3) one of my neighbors will steal a pair of my underwear and be disappointed with their choice and throw them in the trash where I will find them. This is why I schlep my 5 trash bags full of laundry to Buena Park every few weeks. Because I am a fucking weirdo.

On the other hand, I will describe in full detail embarrassing shit that happens to me. To anyone. The first time I met my friend's boyfriend, literally within 7 second of meeting him, I told him how my ex-boyfriend had rejected me when I tried to seduce him with dinner and lingerie. To me this was a completely normal conversation to have with a stranger. I mean he asked how I was doing right? I also constantly over share with my poor neighbors. I can't ever answer their "How's it going question?" without a 4 minute monologue about waking up in a gutter or puking on my own shoes. Fortunately I think they find me entertaining since they haven't moved out yet.

Most people tell me they find my Facebook updates entertaining because they're offensive and out of control. I'm more than happy to tell you about my one-night stand but don't you dare fucking ask me to do my laundry and go grocery shopping with you. Too much, too soon, too far.